That's Enough
by Kaellana
Summary: After a brawl at the docks, a young William Turner suffers parental love. One shot.


**THAT'S ENOUGH**

"Turner's just a sailor's lad! Turner's just a sailor's lad!"

"And his mum's just a sailor's whore!" Phil chipped in with Hugh's goading, "Ain't that right, Hugh?"

"You take that back, Phillip Clavell!" the small boy stepped towards the older ones, his lack of height taking away any menace that might have otherwise been in his walk.

"Make me!" Phil turned to his compatriot, "She is, ain't she, Hugh?"

The oldest of the three laughed, and squatted down to look the lad in the face. "Your da's a good for nothing salt, and your ma's an ugly, ol' whore, who -"

But he got no further before the boy launched at him. Hugh gave a shout of surprise, and swung a fist at the angry little scrap. Phil grabbed the youngster roughly by the shoulder, and threw him to the ground, before giving him a sharp kick to the ribs. Then Hugh began to join in, and though to his credit the kid fought back, the majority of the punches and kicks that flung through the air were courtesy of the older youths.

Then, suddenly, they were gone. The child looked up, disorientated, wondering what had made his tormentors leave. And then a voice ran through the docks, past the jumble of discarded planks and broken fishing nets.

"William Turner! That's enough!"

--

"Oh, William," she sighed as she tended to him. "Brawling in the docks! I can't -" she sighed again and reached into her apron pocket, producing an old handkerchief. "Chin up."

He complied, and she wiped under his nose, cleaning the blood from his face. He squirmed suitably under her touch, but one hand remained firm on his shoulder, keeping him in place with a mother's grip.

"What possessed you, William?"

"It was Hugh Purles, mother, and Phil Clavell! They said -" his words descended into indiscernible sounds as his mother opened his mouth to check for loose teeth. Finding none, she snapped his jaw shut again, and he continued, "- and then they started singin' and they told me that father was just a sailor, and you were..." he stammered to a halt, a blush creeping onto his face, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Oh, William," she repeated in frustration.

"It's all dad's fault," he muttered.

"What does your father have to do with this?"

"If he weren't a sailor, if he was home," Will began to launch a torrent of bitter words against his father, "then we wouldn't have to listen to 'em, you wouldn't have to work, I -"

Before he could go any further, the woman pressed a finger against his cut lip, silencing him.

"Now you listen to me, William, and you listen well," Margaret cupped her son's face with one hand, smoothing his unruly mop of brown hair back with the other. "Your father is a good man."

Will made as though to protest, but she just repeated the gesture for silence.

"He might not be as rich as Mr Purles, or as respected as Mr Clavell, but that doesn't change who he is. Yes, he's a merchant sailor, and that might not be the most glorified job in Christendom, but he can't change the salt in his blood, and he's the best man I know."

"But he's just a sailor," the boy grumbled.

"He's more than just a sailor, William."

"He is?"

His mother nodded. "He's a sailor, _and_ a husband, _and_ a father, _and he_ _loves us_. And that's enough. Understand me?"

There was a pause, and then - "Is it really enough?"

"Yes."

Will screwed up his eyes as though deep in thoughts that were much greater than those of a normal seven-year-old boy. After a moment of contemplation he nodded, and, as an afterthought, gave his mother a peck on the cheek. Finding himself caught in her arms he grudgingly returned the embrace, frowning and wriggling as he felt her place a kiss on his head.

"Good boy. Now, run along." And he was gone in a breath of wind, speeding out of the door, running away from the house into the English afternoon. "And stay away from the docks, you hear?" She thought she heard him give a shout of promise, but it could have been any of the street urchins calling out.

Shaking her head, she returned inside. The handkerchief was bloodied in her grasp, far beyond cleaning. With a reluctant toss, she threw it into the fire. The embers crackled and danced upwards, and that would be the only noise in the room until the evening, when Will would return home.

Margaret Turner was lonely, it was true. Her neighbours knew so little about what her husband did that they were wary of any conversation with her. And she had no time to initiate it, what with earning money, and cleaning the house, and bringing up Will.

But it wasn't all that bad. She had her husband, regardless of the fact that he was at sea, and she had her fine boy.

And that was enough.

--

_**Finis.**_

--

_One shot. Part of the "Prequels of the Caribbean" series._


End file.
